A Fools' Dance
by StrangerInAStrangeWorld
Summary: A sequel to Masks Hiding Masks. The reception's finished and it's time for newcomers to take the dance floor alongside old. Only a fool joins a masquerade ball of gods and monsters. But perhaps that makes Ishida Uryuu a very smart fool.
1. First Night: Dawn Waltz

_To anyone reading this, if you haven't read its predecessor _Masks Hiding Masks _you may want to do so in order to get a grasp on the events that led to this AU. If not, welcome to you, my faithful followers._

* * *

_Tap, tap, tap._

Last night's rain cleansing Karakura Town, washing away footprints and filth, reiatsu and blood.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

Three light steps from a Senkaimon and a bored gaze swept over the city below.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

A window shade knocking against the wall as a pale hand moves it aside to scan the sky, its owner startled awake by unfamiliar spirit pressure high above.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

A leaky faucet as a girl exhausted from karate practice sleeps in the next room.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

A giant's toe nudging open his apartment's door, hands full with the well-worn guitar case's handle.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

A bright-haired girl's fingers fumbling for a light switch as she grabs a glass of water.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

Choked-back tears against sandy rock, wept by a ragged man.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

The rhythm to a nameless song on the frame of a bed, half-remembered by an ex-delinquent.

_Tap, tap, tap. _

Fate's knocking. To take the chance and open the door is to be a fool. To hide from its machinations is to die.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Three opening beats to start the first song, three beats to begin a masquerade ball for dancers invited a century before. Three quiet beats to enter a fools' dance.


	2. Second Night: School Bell Swing

_"Young people have begun supplementing the traditional ways of playing the music..."_

_"It is a blend of traditional and modern musics and styles."_

* * *

It was way too early to be hunting monsters, Ishida Uryuu reflected blearily. It was also way too early to be trying to absorb his grandfather's lessons.

Soken had decided that his pupil and grandson would be best taught how to put the ways of the Quincy into practice this year, being too young previously. As a child, Uryuu had clamored for his teacher to take him on patrols and pouted when he'd been consistently told that he was too young.

Now he was left wondering why he'd ever wanted to get up before dawn, put on a uniform that was too hot in summer and too cold in winter, and go searching for invisible beasts that would eat his soul if given the chance. Especially given that, as Uryuu had discovered the hard way, the mud created by last night's rain was neither warm nor kind to Quincy uniforms.

But Soken was not exactly youthful anymore, so it fell to Uryuu to learn the traditions from him before it came time for his master to pass to Soul Society. The dark-haired teen startled as a sparrow fluttered up from a bush, reassuming his stoic expression immediately afterwards.

"...and of course, Uryuu, modern education is as important as that of our ancestors," the Quincy master said. "I saw a light on under your bedroom door long after I told you to go to bed, so I'll assume that your lack of attention today is due to preoccupation with your exams. We're finished for this morning, as it happens. Collect your belongings and run along to school."

His grandson flushed with embarrassment, fiddling with his bracelet's cross. "Yes, sensei."

Dashing inside, the dark-haired boy peeled off his clothes, switching to a more modern uniform in the form of his school outfit after scrubbing himself furiously with a washcloth and some soap. Uryuu scooped his books into a far-too-small backpack, tucking his bracelet beneath his sleeve and pausing only to lay a hand on his grandfather's bony shoulder as the older man set about removing and repairing his frayed cape.

"I'll make you proud today, grandfather," he murmured.

"I know you will."

Five minutes later, the Quincy-in-training was sprinting through the streets to school. He wasn't late—Quincies were never late—but exam results were to be posted today and the suspense was killing him. Not suspense per se, since no one had ever been able to unseat Uryuu from his position at the top of the list, but the niggling fear that someone would was still present.

Sure enough, as Ishida slowed to his usual brisk stride, students were already gathering in the courtyard in front of a long list.

"Check it out, the king nerd's already here. Like he even needs to check." The comment came from someone too deep within a knot of students to be identified, but Uryuu didn't need to know who'd said it to write it off as the jealousy of a future salaryman snd continue walking. Though it would've been nice to have someone to stick up for him, the future Quincy master had done without short-lived, petty things like friendship for years.

It didn't help that, although most had forgotten by now, Uryuu had been considered a creepy child in his younger years, and had lost all of his few friends after accidentally manifesting his spirit bow in the middle of class and causing an explosion. Mothers hardly wanted their precious little lambs around budding pyromaniacs, after all. But it had led to Ryuuken giving in and letting Soken teach the raven-haired child, which Uryuu counted as much more worthwhile than companionship that would've faded anyway.

Sure enough, as he wove his way through the crowd of students, Uryuu spotted his own name at the very top of the list of scores, with a girl's name just below— Kunieda Ryo, a classmate accomplished in athletics as well. There she had him beat, if only because Hirenkyaku picked up the slack for speed in running and he didn't actually know or care to know how regular sports were played. Somehow Kunieda managed to be more popular, despite or because of her cold aloofness and sharp tongue, traits shared with Uryuu himself. Probably the adoration of younger girls for their 'senpai,' he reflected. If that was the case, he didn't want to be popular.

As the bell rang, Ishida brushed past a pair of idiots, staring morosely at the scores with the large foreign youth whose name he'd never bothered to learn. A few paces to the left stood Inoue Orihime, deep brown eyes staring at the same name sadly. Though her three male classmates continued inside after a few seconds to change shoes, the auburn-haired girl stayed where she was, prompting Uryuu to turn and frown at her.

"Inoue-san, is there something wrong?" He asked.

A shaky smile, the sort worn only by those with something to hide, appeared on Orihime's face. "Nothing to worry about, Ishida-kun," she assured him. "It's just...his name's not on there like normal. It reminds me."

Uryuu understood immediately, searching for words to comfort her and finding none. He resorted to the only words that popped into his head. "Then you'd best get inside. The school doesn't tolerate lateness."

The Quincy tried his hardest to ignore the way her face fell at the uncaring words.

As Ochi-sensei took attendance, Uryuu lost himself in a book his grandfather had recommended. It was in German, a language he was hard-pressed to speak, save for a few phrases used in Quincy techniques, but reading the strange lettering was simple enough.

"Ishida Uryuu?" His teacher called.

"Present," came the absent reply as the Quincy stared at the volume's pages incredulously. Who gave Death brooms or rakes? That wasn't intimidating at all, and completely inaccurate, since Soken had told him about the death gods who carried swords long ago. Fairy tales were strange things. Perhaps the writer had been deep into his cups. That must be it, Uryuu decided. Shinigami would never act like that.

"Alright, listen up, you brats!" Ochi declared. "All the other teachers were too lazy to call an extra name during roll call, so you're getting a new classmate!" At the disbelieving looks sent her way—who transferred in after exams?—the teacher scowled. "Yes, really. We have a transfer student—I made him wait in the hall so I could surprise you. Hey, kid, c'mon in!" She called.

A tapping sound came from just beyond the door, as if its maker was knocking. A second later, the classroom door slid open and a tall boy ambled in, flashing a wave at his new classmates. An air of general laziness and casualness hung around the transfer, echoed by his slouch and slow scan of the classroom.

Shinigami reiatsu, distinctly timeless in a way ordinary souls were not, hung around him too. Blue eyes narrowed to slits, bright with suspicion. Why would a Shinigami be here? Karakura Town, as a rule, didn't have much Hollow activity, save for an attack on Kurosaki Ichigo's mother several years back. The Shinigami sent here generally had cushy posts with few requirements and had always stayed out of Soken and Uryuu's business.

One coming here now, disguised in a way that only someone who'd ignored his teacher's promise that the Shinigami didn't care about them would notice, could only mean one thing: Soul Society did indeed care about the existence of the last Quincy warriors and it wanted any potential they might have for threatening the balance snuffed out.

"Well, introduce yourself to the class, don't be shy," the teacher prompted. "Put your name on the board while you're at it."

The Shinigami chuckled as if a suggestion that he was shy was the funniest thing in the world. "Alrighty then! Th' name's Hirako Shinji, an' I'm from Takatsuki down in Osaka. Ya write it like this." He turned, prompting fits of snickering muffled by hands at the unusual drawl. "Across, across, down... There ya go!"

Despite his suspicion, Uryuu's brows rose as he read the kanji. Instead of settling for scrawling his name and taking a seat like anyone else, 'Hirako Shinji' had written a set of symbols that took a few seconds to sink in as being reversed kanji. Even the furigana written above were backwards and upside-down to boot.

"Uh..." Dumbfounded, Ochi-sensei blinked at her newest pupil. "That's kanji, right?"

"Sure ain't magic runes, sensei. Just reversed, is all. Got myself a talent fer flippin' things 'round, y'know?" Although Shinji wore a slouch, his body language was anything but casual to a perceptive observer like Ishida. The blond's left hand had picked the chalk up and set it down, his right hand near to his hip the whole time as if ready to draw a blade. Every line of his body spoke of a fighting stance straining to disguise itself as an everyday pose.

"...I know now," she answered. Uryuu saw his teacher give a tiny headshake, shoulders pulling back and stance firming as if she wondered why on earth an adult woman would be intimidated by a seeming teenager. "Well, take a seat. Middle seat of the back row should be fine." As far away from her as possible. Even humans without any spiritual power tend to know where they rank on the food chain, but this is ridiculous. A idiot with an accent thicker than the blood from the class pervert Honsho's nose around Inoue Orihime-

Clever. A facade put up well enough to fool even briefly someone with the sharp eye of an archer would mask Hirako's intentions from nearly anyone. Uryuu'd nearly fallen into the trap himself, saved only by a predatory air that sent the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up and had ice pooling in his stomach. None of the other Shinigami have carried that aura. Odd that one who looks barely older than the Quincy himself would feel this way.

A light frown creased Uryuu's forehead. With the Shinigami at the back of the classroom, he'll be able to watch Uryuu, but the reverse won't be possible. The dark-haired teen will have to watch all his tells and vulnerable points.

Out of the corner of his eye, Uryuu caught Shinji striding to his seat with the confidence of a lion. As soon as the blond noticed blue eyes flicking over towards him, the swagger shifted to an unhurried amble. No, even without the otherworldly power cloaking Hirako Shinji, the last apprentice of the Quincy would've suspected him. There are too many tells serving to remind him of the truth each time the human mask starts to do its work.

Uryuu snapped his book shut, knuckles whitening with the tightness of his grip on the tome. Shinji knew he knew what he really was. All the little slips—they were intentional.

Now what kind of person had such a tight control over his public mask? And what kind of person needed to wear one in the first place?


	3. Third Night: Kagura of the Bento Boxes

_For future reference, /this/ (i.e. italics preceded and succeeded by slash marks) refers to a Visored conversing with his/her inner Hollow, while regular italics are thoughts or emphasis._

_**"Kagura** (神楽, かぐら, "god-entertainment") is a Japanese word referring to a specific type of Shinto theatrical dance—with roots arguably predating those of Noh."_

* * *

Not for the first time, Shinji drummed his fingers on his desk and stared out the window, occupying himself by thinking of ways to mess with Rose's well-cared-for hair. The captain of the Third's shampoo could be switched with shaving cream and honey, his conditioner drained and replaced with dye, sake substituted for the water supply of the bathhouse that the blond preferred... The possibilities were as endless as Hiyori's temper was short.

It was more interesting than algebra, at least. Shinji had always been good at math during his Academy days, if not exemplary, but it had been nearly a century and a half since that time. Only reason he was paying attention at all was because the Visored literally couldn't afford to have nothing to report and staying after for detention hampered that. Shinji's niece (well, she was more like his second cousin twice removed) had a birthday coming up, and it had always been his policy to spoil her rotten. This year wasn't going to be any different.

At the same time, living expenses couldn't be ignored, so if he wanted to buy that wisteria-patterned teal yukata for young Kagami, volunteering for this mission was the only option. Nothing else short of a direct order from the Central 46 would've persuaded him to sit here, a veritable wolf in sheep's clothing, while being bored out of his skull. Getting the closest thing to a vacation that he was permitted to have was a nice perk, as was the chance to sniff out any traces of Aizen's stench.

"Hirako, what property justifies this operation?" Some twig-thin man, easily snapped in two, eyed Shinji with the same wary look that most others used, uneasy without knowing why. It was amusing, really, to have the weak reacting the same way even in a different world entirely.

The blond raised his sharp gaze up to the board, figuring out the expected answer in a heartbeat. But wouldn't it be more fun to push the boundaries a little?

"Wasn't payin' a lick of attention, sorry." Shinji's smirk was deliberately wide, showing more teeth than a shark. "Where're we?"

Exasperation rolled off the man in waves, coloring his tiny spark of reiatsu. The foxlike grin widened and, unsurprisingly, the teacher just sighed, the sound echoed by a breeze coming in through the window. "Page three hundred twelve."

Shinji pretended to scan the page. "Distributive, then."

"Correct," The stick-man muttered, clearly annoyed by the transfer's cavalier attitude. The teacher cast a glance at the clock, frowning when it displayed a later time than he would've liked. "Homework—"

Any further words were cut off by the screech of a school bell, far too shrill for Shinji's ears. At times enhanced senses were great—a deserter from the Second on one patrol would've been able to get the drop on his lieutenant, absorbed in maintaining a communication Kido as she was, if not for the fact that Shinji's hearing was twice as good as an ordinary person's. Other times, as now, it was a real pain to register information that way, with the Hollow sensing something at the same time his host did and the linking of the two minds making the sensation twice as potent. Of course, it only seemed to go one way unless the Hollow wanted otherwise, the bastard.

**"So tasty. It's a real shame that you let yourself be fettered by Seireitei, King," **Shinji's mirror image commented, prompting a mental eye roll from the Visored. Speak of the devil.

_/Whaddya mean, tasty? Make sense fer once, fox-face,/ _Shinji replied.

**"The humans, of course. So much more rich than all the passed-on souls and so much more savory than the sweet Shinigami," **he answered. **"Like marinated pork to white rice or pork to mochi. All necessary, but all different." **

/_Not necessary if I haven't had t'eat 'em. Just Hollows, shitty-tasting as they are,/ _the Visored retorted as he scraped back his chair and rose to leave with the rest of his new classmates.

The Hollow chuckled. **"So sure? Well, if you'd prefer that I feed myself from your soul, please let me know. Having other souls wandering around this place until you have to give them a soul burial and unbalance things for a bit is a minor annoyance." **

/You're_ a minor annoyance,/ _Shinji grumbled.

Out of the corner of his eye, the blond caught sight of a pair of hairpins glinting brightly in the afternoon light, their owner being herded out by a band of girls, every one having some sort of charm to them, even the cold-faced tall one. Shinji would bet money that that one had more than a few underclassmen pining for her.

No one had specified how he needed to go about the objective, so inviting himself to lunch with some pretty girls couldn't hurt.

"Oi! Orihime-chan!" Shinji called out, forcing his lips to curve into a foxlike grin. "Orihime-chan!"

The schoolgirl turned to see him sauntering towards her, a polite smile spreading across her face upon recognizing the transfer student. "Hi, Hirako-kun. Do you need something?"

"Hey, who said you could be so familiar with her, new guy?" The butch girl next to her, previously unnoticed by Shinji, snapped. "This and homeroom are the only times you're even in the same room, I'm pretty sure."

Shinji blinked innocently at her. This one didn't seem to have any particular charm to her. "Now who're you again? Yuri-chan, was it?"

The girl's body tightened, jaw clenching as she raised a fist in an attempt to threaten him that would've worked with anyone who hadn't fought in an off-and-on war for nearly seven times her lifespan. "It's Arisawa to you, Osakan idiot! Arisawa Tatsuki!"

"Tatsuki-kun, then," Shinji replied coolly. Not actually being from Osaka, he didn't care too much if she threw insults at him based off that. "Why're ya bein' such a stiff? Loosen up; doesn't look like Orihime-chan's too bothered 'bout it."

"You—" The black-haired girl stopped, squeezed her eyes shut, and released a sigh. Opening her eyes, Tatsuki continued with restrained exasperation in her voice, "Look, 'cause you're new and not from around here, I'll let it slide for now, but if Inoue starts to get upset about it, you're dead meat, got it?"

Shinji laughed, tilting his head back to catch a glimpse of the Quincy watching him while trying valiantly to look as if he wasn't. "No worries. I like to avoid bein' dead, thanks all the same."

"Um, Hirako-kun? Did you need something?" Orihime persisted, eyebrows raising in uncertainty.

"We-ell, since I don't really know anybody 'round here, an' we're classmates an' all, I was thinkin' maybe I could eat with ya today," the Visored explained, shifting from foot to foot.

In recent years, recent being a relative term, Shinji had developed a tendency to grow impatient rapidly when confined, especially sitting. Half-consciously, the captain of the Fifth's hand drifted to where his sword would be if he wasn't occupying a gigai. The tightening of Ishida Uryuu's reiatsu behind him made Shinji abandon the instinctive movement for the thousandth time. It wasn't the fault of the delightful beauty before him that the Visored's blood ran hot and wild after being cooped up, nor was it Orihime's fault that he wanted to be out taking action and fighting instead of this, but Ishida didn't know that.

Thus, he was itching to get moving and every second standing here talking in the doorway was just making him antsy. Shinji tried to distract the reflexes screaming at him to not stay in one place too long with an enemy behind him by noting the strangely long time Ishida was taking to gather his belongings.

"Oh!" Orihime exclaimed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear that had been blown over an eye by an unexpected current. "Well, um..."

Behind his bright-haired classmate, the trio led by the tall girl chirped promises to meet her on the roof, evidently bored with waiting. All three had dubious expressions on their faces.

"Sure! I'll even share my lunch with you if you forgot one!" Orihime beamed at him, though the hand plucking at a sleeve spoke of a less certain inner self. "We're eating on the roof, so it might be a little hot..." Her eyes held a hint of hope that he'd be averse to the heat. No such luck. She'd just have to get used to talking to boys.

The Visored rocked a bit on his heels, a crooked smile gracing his features. "Naw, I'm fine with that. It's a real pretty day, Orihime-chan. And who could turn down a chance to have lunch with their very first love?" Shinji laughed, though not at the humor of his blatant dishonesty, but instead at the idea that someone of his nature could ever fall in love with a person who was at best an insect to be protected and at worst food. The way her jaw and the jaw of her self-appointed protector dropped at the audacity was hilarious.

"Well then, lead on, Orihime-chan!" He drawled.

A few minutes following a flustered girl and her annoyed classmate later, Shinji found himself on the roof, plopping down beside the cold-faced girl and her shy friend, neither of whom made any attempt as being friendly. That was fine. Neither held any interest for him as baseline humans.

But Orihime was another story, a seed of reiatsu lying dormant at her core. Even Arisawa had power humming within, feeling of fire-forged steel and broken bones to her friend's warm sunlight and spring growth. They were the reason he sat beneath the sun now, humid breeze ruffling his short blond hair.

"Maa, at least it's not rainy today," Shinji commented, fishing around in his bag for today's lunch. It had been a while since he'd made food for just himself, though by most people's standards the Visored's lunch was enough for three people. Had to make up for a ridiculously fast metabolism and failure to eat regular souls somehow.

Finally he located the food, pulling out no less than three bento boxes and earning odd looks from those who noticed.

"No way you can eat all that, Skinny. Gonna share or let it go to waste?" The messy-haired girl sitting across from him asked, peering at the meals contained within the boxes. Her name was something with a lot of 'ah' sounds in it... Banana? Natsui Mahana, that was it.

"Natsui-chan!" The timid half-pint next to her exclaimed, blushing as if in vicarious embarrassment for her classmate's bluntness

"Nonna th' above, Mahana-chan," Shinji retorted, making a mental note to get back at her later for the dig at his eating habits. He didn't _like_ having people draw attention to his flaws and peculiarities. "I bought my lunch and I plan to finish it off all by my lonesome."

"Kinda rude to call people you just met by their first name, isn't it?" The girl observed, unwittingly making another mark for herself in Shinji's mental list of people to punish.

Shinji poked at a piece of chicken idly. "Kinda rude ta ask a buncha random-ass questions of somebody, ain't it?" He replied.

Mahana frowned. "Do all Osakans talk funny like that?"

"Are all girls from Karakura Town rude like that?" He snapped, losing patience with her rapidly. "Sheesh, I'd talk normal if I wanted ta." A memory of a failing mark on a test with her name on it, by chance on top of a stack being passed out, flicked through his mind. "'Sides, yer th' one failin' math, not me. Study th' theorems more if ya wanna save yer grade."

Mahana flushed brilliant crimson, scrunching her skirt in her hands. "Sorry," she mumbled. "But everyone was thinking it." The slightly embarrassed, averted gazes of the girls around him confirmed it.

Orihime broke the silence after a few seconds, leaning in and peering at his choices. "Oh! Noriben, tori bento, sake bento... Don't you think it would go better with marmalade? Or ketchup? I have some with me!"

Shinji's stomach nearly rebelled at the thought, quite the feat indeed. "That's fine, put it on yer own lunch. I'll stick with what I got."

She pouted. "But it's really good with a sweet flavor!" The ditzy schoolgirl insisted. "You could try some of mine!"

"_I'll _try it, Inoue," Tatsuki said hastily, reaching over and seizing a piece of marmalade-covered beef. Popping the odd combination into her mouth, the dark-haired martial artist looked as if it was a challenge not to spit out the food. After a second, she chewed and swallowed. "Marmalade goes on toast for a reason, Inoue. Not that your lunch's bad, but marmalade isn't the right flavoring."

"I appreciate your creativity, 'Hime!" A red-haired girl chimed, reaching over and wrapping Orihime in a tight hug. "No matter how outlandish, I'll eat anything prepared by by your delicate hands as a sign of my—"

"Shut up, Chizuru! Get consent! We can all see your pervy hands straying!" Tatsuki yowled, bringing down a fist onto the base of the girl's neck. "You are _not_ immune to charges of sexual harassment just because your father's an English teacher here!"

Chizuru released her grip on Orihime with a yelp of pain and slumped onto the ground.

"Thanks fer the save, Tatsuki-kun," Shinji said between mouthfuls of food. The rest of the students around him were starting to relax and chatter, though the Visored's sharp eyes caught hairs still standing up on the backs of his classmates' necks and postures too tense to be completely casual.

She gave him a thumbs-up. "No problem. Inoue's had a thing for experimenting with flavors for a long time, so I'm used to it. After Ichigo... she's tried to keep herself busy." Tatsuki bit her lip, shoulders hunching.

"Ah, just you wait. Everybody sees each other again sooner or later," Shinji said lightly, tapping the side of his third bento box. "If you're meant to, you'll find her again."

The dark-haired girl's shoulders lifted, eyes crinkling and mouth opening as if about to say something. Before she had the chance to speak, however, the shrill tones of a school bell announced the need for haste.

"What do you know? You really did manage to finish, Hirako-san," the amazon next to him said in surprise, tone divided between being impressed and being disgusted. Her voice was higher than her appearance indicated, to Shinji's amusement, clear and sweet and smooth like glass.

"Meant what I said an' said what I meant," the Visored retorted. "Kanada-chan, ain't it?"

"Kunieda-_san _to you, Hirako-san," she insisted, tidying up the remains of her lunch. "Even if you're familiar with everyone else, I'm the class president and the oldest in this year. It may not work that way in Osaka, but that's something to be respected here."

Shinji scooped up the remains of his meal, having practically licked it clean. "Hardly the oldest, Kunieda-chan, and hardly the only one ever ta lead somethin'," he replied, smirking. "But I respect ya plenty," the captain of the Fifth lied as he headed for the stairs down.

The truth was, Shinji respected very few people, and those were the sort of people that everyone respected. Yama-jii for his raw power, Kyouraku and Ukitake for their long-held authority and sharp insight, the Soul King because of who and what he was, Rose for his waiting viciousness like a wheeling eagle, Urahara for his extreme intellect and Yoruichi for her stealth and speed, and Kenpach for his belligerence and sheer strength to back it up.

Maybe once he had honored Kensei and his unflinching drive to protect in battle and in peace. Now it seemed foolish, old-fashioned, if the grey-haired man still followed it at all. Old motivators had become harder and harder to determine in the other Visoreds. Unohana's satisfaction with living passively, however necessary, was something for which Shinji could only feel scorn where he had once felt admiration. Love was no longer interesting to Shinji, though on his radar, and the latest Kuchiki captain was just like the rest of his kind, ready to throw himself away for an ice-masked shell, a pawn of the Central 46. Hitsugaya was an impulsive child playing at adulthood, his lieutenant a lovely flake and former friend of Ichimaru.

Did Shinji's plans take them all into account? Of course. Did he like them as much as someone like him could? Sure. But respect and recognition weren't always the same thing. The Visored knew where he fell on the food chain and where they fell. A horse could kick a man's skull in, but one ultimately served the other. For now Shinji was the horse of the Central 46.

And soon enough he would use the strength invested in him to kick in some skulls, whether those of bureaucrats or wannabe warlords.


	4. Fourth Night: Farruca de Las Noches

Las Noches was the sort of place that could never decide whether it was too hot or too cold. There was no question of simply switching attire based on the time of day, either—the palace was well-named, given that its bone-pale dome was never touched by the sun. Nothing in Hueco Mundo was ever blessed with anything but silvery rays that went from too bright to not bright enough at precisely the wrong times. But then, the world-prison of the Hollows was nothing if not a contradiction. Savage and still, eternally dark and cruelly bleach-pale, numbing in its monotony yet painful in the despair and terror that eternal sameness induced.

Thus clothing was mostly up to the personal preferences of those who called Las Noches home, whether Shinigami, Hollow, Arrancar, or a being who didn't quite fall into any category but his own. A black cape, more out of place than one might guess, fluttered on one of the battlements in the hands of a woman in a crisp white jacket, whose teal gaze inspected every inch of the familiar fabric.

"They continue to wage war against us, even fighting their own problems?" Tier Harribel murmured, voice twice-muffled by her mask fragment and high, tightly-zipped collar. "This is the second Shinigami who has assaulted us this month."

"Hah, they think they can take _us?!_" One of the girls standing behind her scoffed, mismatched eyes glinting. "This is our home turf! All they're doing is throwing their lives away!"

"_Your_ home turf, maybe," the busty Amazon sitting on the edge of the battlement retorted, fingering the sandy edge of the stone. "I can see it. You hanging around here before Harribel-sama took you in and throwing yourself at Barragan. Or maybe Poww; I thought I saw you making eyes at him the other day."

"Say that again, Mila Rose!" The odd-eyed Arrancar snarled, leaning in towards her darker-skinned comrade, exotic-looking among the many pallid denizens of Las Noches. She raised a fist aggressively. "I'll knock your teeth out for that, ya mangy she-cat! You stink like you've been rolling in Menos shit! Is that why your hair's the same color and a rat's nest to boot?"

"I thought deer had a good sense of smell, Apacci. Clearly not, since you haven't noticed that you smell just as terrible. It's shameful that you two would even dare to be in Harribel-sama's presence without washing." The third girl, skirt coiled around her legs as she leaned against a wall, sniffed. An over-long sleeve moved to cover her mouth, sending the bells on it jingling with the movement. "At least close your legs."

"_Sung-Sun!_" The pair yowled almost in unison, lunging for their more delicate companion.

"Behave." Harribel's tone froze all three Arrancar in place, boiling blood cooling in an instant. Third Espada or not, the ability of Tier Harribel to be imperious rivaled those of Barragan and Aizen.

"Yes, Harribel-sama," Mila Rose and Apacci grumbled, the latter following the former after a long second.

"Of course, Harribel-sama," Sung-Sun murmured snidely, lavender gaze sliding away.

The blonde woman let the remnants of a nameless man's shihakusho fall from her fingers, fluttering away and landing on the spidery branches of one of Hueco Mundo's crystal trees far below. "Take care that you act properly in Aizen-sama's court tomorrow," she said a touch more softly. "He may be preoccupied somewhat with that new soul he brought here, but you know how quick he is to punish failure, particularly failure to control oneself."

"Like with that lizard-freak in the Menos Forest? Guy looks like Aizen-sama got pissed at him and shoved the magic pebble down his throat instead of breaking his mask," Mila Rose commented, tossing her brown mane.

White-clad shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug. "He has been there even before the Espada were formed. I have no knowledge of his relation to Aizen-sama." Harribel half-turned to sweep ocean-green eyes over her subordinates in a firm look. "But _you_ are under my command, and you will not displease him tomorrow. I have no wish to lose any of you over some petty squabble, my Tres Bestias."

"Don't worry, Harribel-sama. _I_ won't disappoint you," Sung-Sun assured her leader.

"Hey! Don't act so superior, you scaly bitch!" Apacci snapped, jabbing a gloved finger at her comrade. "You're going on about me being unobservant, but you don't even notice how ugly that stringy mop of seaweed you call hair is!"

Harribel sighed, turning away so her Fracciones couldn't see the exasperation that she allowed to cross her face. All were fine fighters, strong enough to defend each other from Hollows even as Adjuchas, but their cooperation out of battle left something to be desired. Even in combat, the three had to be reminded of their common enemy, usually painfully, if Harribel wasn't around. At least the third-strongest Espada could count on their faithfulness to her.

"Recall what I told you not five seconds ago..." Harribel said, resting a rough palm on the hilt of Tiburon. The gesture was less of a promise of pain than it was a reminder of the wrath of the man who'd bestowed it upon her. "I have faith in all of you to be able to control yourselves, but you should be able to demonstrate that in private as well as in public."

A cool breeze skittered over the dunes far beneath the Arrancar, followed by another one higher up that ruffled half-tamed blond hair. Cold was of less import than heat to the shark-like Harribel, but the repressed shiver in her subordinates' reiatsu told another story for the Tres Bestias. It was time to leave the brisk currents that Las Noches had wrapped itself in today for the static not-quite warmth and perpetual mineral scent of the palace's interior.

"We're going inside," the third Espada commanded, knowing full well that they wouldn't have suggested it otherwise. Without waiting for a response, though she got one in the form of ill-concealed relief flowing off of her Fracciones, Harribel turned on her heel and followed the steps down. The trio trotted after their leader, chattering among themselves about how annoying it was that Aizen wouldn't let them take a trip to the world of the living. Admittedly, such an adventure wasn't likely to turn out well for the denizens of wherever they chose to visit—probably somewhere warm for Mila Rose and Sung-Sun, with water for Harribel, Apacci not having too much of an opinion.

When the blond had reached the rooms allocated to her and to her Fracciones, she allowed herself a moment to appreciate the haven from the bickering of the other Arrancar and Aizen's tight grip on them. Here, instead of Aizen's expansive furniture and soaring ceilings, couches were replaced by cushions under low tables and the domes he favored were traded for a pockmarked ceiling that gave Mila Rose a scant few inches of space between her head and the mysterious white stone. It wasn't lavishly decorated, hardly better furnished than the den they had called home as ordinary Hollows.

But the chambers of Tier Harribel, Tercera Espada, didn't dominate and overwhelm the people in them, which made their near-blankness far more welcome than the palatial rooms of the Shinigami who ruled Las Noches. Unfortunately, it was to those palatial rooms that she had to go shortly, but in the meantime Harribel could take care of some personal business.

In a few long strides, she glided across the central room and knelt briefly by one of the tables to scoop up a small crystal stake from its surface. The wider end of the stake was still somewhat rough and gritty, though it had been worn down methodically over the past month after being broken off of one of Hueco Mundo's many trees. The other end was pointed, dagger-sharp and about as long. Bone-white and slender as it was, the stake practically disappeared against Harribel's long sleeves, easily concealed.

The blond's palm closed around the pointed end and she hissed in pain, shifting her grip hastily. Thin rivulets of blood, deep crimson and all the darker in contrast to the crystal, trickled down. Harribel wondered if Shinigami bled the same shade of red, or if their blood was some other hue—shouldn't those who called themselves gods have something to mark themselves apart from humans and demons? She hefted the stake for a few seconds, considering what it would take to test that.

No matter. The Espada rose again and continued towards the sole wall that wasn't blank. Other crystal spikes, honed with the same carefulness of the one she now held, pinned scraps of black cloth to the wall. Some of the fabric pieces bore the dark brown stains of dried blood, while others were clean save for a few stubborn grains of sand. The soles of a few sandals and the odd sock, scarf, or piece of jewelry adorned the wall as well.

To a casual observer, it was a collection of trophies, marks of triumph over and domination of others. To Harribel herself, the wall was a collection of memories. Their owners' bodies had crumbled to dust after a time, or perhaps been subsumed beneath the shifting dunes. All that remained was what the third Espada had collected from their bodies, small tokens to mark their passing.

Here, where time either slipped away or dragged its feet, memories faded swiftly without signs that they had ever happened. The unfortunate men and women had families, or at least friends and rivals, who could remember their lives. But the Shinigami long-lost to the ravaging of an inhospitable world had no one to remember their deaths save for Harribel.

No one would remember the death of an Espada or her followers as anything more than a battle well-fought and a victory hard-won for Soul Society. Harribel could hardly fault them for thinking that way, but it was not her way to so easily forget sacrificed lives.

With one sand-scraped hand, she held the black rag she'd torn from today's attacker's hakama against an unclaimed spot on the wall. With the other, the third Espada positioned the reddened tip of her stake just above the fabric. Behind her, the Tres Bestias watched bemusedly, never having understood this personal ritual. Quick as a striking snake, the Arrancar pulled back and then stabbed the crystal forwards to pin the rag to the wall.

Taking a step back, Harribel surveyed her handiwork. The patchwork shadows she'd covered the featureless wall in fluttered weakly, a few pendants glinting dimly as they were revealed by the movement. The only true brightness in the whole collection came from blood with no right to look so human, and even that was drying and fading to rusty brown. Soon it would be back to a cloth-and-crystal mosaic of subtle shades and subtler significance.

The blond's lips pressed together in a thin line, brushing the bitterly cold inner surface of her mask fragment. How far she and the Tres Bestias had fallen by ascending to this level of power and humanity, that a handful of rags and stone twigs was her greatest pleasure! The freedom of walking forever beneath nothing more than the pitch-dark sky and bleak white moon was becoming more and more alluring.

But instead she'd been conscripted into the power-hungry schemes of a Shinigami with sour grapes, more Hollow-like than the former Hollows he played with like puppets. If Aizen didn't have the allegiance of and power to kill her Fracciones, Harribel would've fled long ago. The ability to cut her off from her companions put far more fear into the third Espada's heart than his martial abilities did.

And now she had to go and endure that man's presence for who-knew-how-long, letting tea grow cold in front of her with his quiet stare judging her despite knowing full well that her mask fragment didn't allow for it. It would be more tolerable if Aizen didn't look as insufferable as he was. The rest of them could be tuned out, even Tosen and Ichimaru occasionally, but Aizen would have any who dared to not devote their full attention to him on the ground, begging for mercy they probably didn't even want.

It couldn't be helped. Unconsciously, Harribel's shoulders hunched forwards and lifted in a slight shrug. The world Aizen Sosuke promised was something she wanted, regardless of how intolerable her comrades were. The Espada were a necessary evil.

"You may leave when I've gone to the meeting if you'd like. Do what you want, but if I hear of any trouble, I'll be disappointed with you all," The Tercera Espada ordered, turning to face the Tres Bestias again. It pained her to have to manipulate them that way, but reminding them of their duties to her was the only practical method for keeping the three Arrancar in line.

The trio collectively drooped. Around Aizen's palace, there wasn't much else to do for the Numeros but pick fights and stir up trouble. Their lives would be dull while Harribel was gone, but dull was better than dead. If she had to make a bet—though Harribel would never _dream _of making a bet—the Tres Bestias would get in fights anyway, but at least it would be with someone who knew how to keep things discreet.

The blonde put all thoughts of what her subordinates would likely get up to out of her head as she left for Aizen's throne room. That would only agitate her, and it didn't pay to have any signs of emotion during the meetings if their dear leader didn't share the same sentiments. Or if he wasn't amused by the primal emotions that his pet Arrancar displayed, which was just as frequent.

With certain individuals, though... it was difficult even for an iron-willed woman like Harribel to keep her feelings under wraps.

"Well, heya there, Harribel-han," one of those certain individuals purred as she turned a corner, too-wide grin slashed across his face. The Tercera Espada felt sure that he liked to use the honorific just to remind her that he wasn't as young as he appeared by any means. It worked, if only slightly—Tier Harribel was now a far cry from the newly-changed Vasto Lorde who expected that everyone who looked human was, and would show their true age.

"Ichimaru-san," Harribel replied in clipped tones, giving him nothing more than a greeting and a folding of her arms. Nearly-covered hands gripped each bicep tightly.

The grin that usually split his face twisted slightly, now openly a smirk. "No hello or anythin'? I'm hurt, really I am, Harribel-han. Won't you even give little ol' me a smile?"

Not quite hidden, the Arrancar's nose crinkled with disgust. Beyond her simple dislike of Shinigami and the creepy demeanor the silver-haired man was blatantly trying to exude, he was always trying to poke at others' weaknesses, always prying at everyone else's masks. And the whole time he didn't even deign to open his eyes, narrowed into slits like a snake's pupils.

He wagged a long finger at her, nails sharp-looking as his Zanpakuto. From the brief glance Harribel caught at the tip of his index finger, they were filed into deadly little points. Probably poisoned too, knowing the sort Aizen picked for his subordinates. "Now now, what would the captain say 'bout that disrespect? Oh, don't think I didn't catch that expression of yours," Gin added. "So feisty, Harribel-han..." He straightened from his slouch against the wall. "Maybe you should be happy that I'm not a tattletale."

Within the cold depths of the Tercera Espada's soul, something far hotter began to simmer. It wasn't anger, not truly, but it was anger's cousin, irritation. "Perhaps," she snapped. The more rational part of her hoped that her mask fragment and collar muffled the disrespect. "If you were not entirely the sort to tell Aizen-sama every detail you unearthed."

Gin chuckled. "Ah, you've got me there. I've gotta follow th' captain, and what kinda lackey would I be if I didn't keep him up ta date on things?" He leered at her, a snake considering whether the chosen prey would fit down its throat. Evidently not, as the silver-haired man turned on his heel to take his leave.

"Ichimaru. Aizen-sama's meeting room is the opposite way," Harribel reminded him. Gin's ability to switch between maliciously comical and deadly on a dime made it absolutely impossible to talk to him, irritating to one who prided herself on un-Hollowlike tact and planning. Shinigami had to be the most frustrating creatures in all the worlds.

He glanced back over his shoulder briefly, smirking. "Aww, so concerned, Harribel-han. Don't worry your pretty little head 'bout me; I'm just checking up on the captain's new pet for him. Got my orders, y'know. Think he was tryin' ta figure out the moon last. Or maybe practicin' karate forms?" The Shinigami clicked his tongue. "A first-year Academy student could teach him a lesson with Hakuda, but I guess he's not bad. Or is that he's not good enough to merit my judgin'? Hard ta say, really..."

"Go to your duty, Ichimaru," The Tercera Espada said hastily. She didn't have the time for conversations, not if she wanted to make it to their Shinigami overlord's meeting on time. Sonido had been explicitly banned—they were expected to have enough respect for Aizen and their fellow Espada to plan their pace and departure time accordingly, without using shortcuts.

One of the many rumors circulating Las Noches whispered that Aizen had fled the Shinigami city because it had been discovered that he had committed the ultimate act of disrespect against his own comrades. None of the rumor-mongers ever specified what that act had been, but it had to have been something pretty big, or something that angered all the wrong people.

Consequently, only Zommari with his fanatical ideas of loyalty and crowd-follower Yammy held any genuine respect for Aizen. Ulquiorra might be loyal, but Harribel's nihilistic comrade had always kept silent about anything that Aizen didn't explicitly ask of him. Fear was just as good a motivator as respect, though, particularly for Hollows. Aizen received little respect, as he deserved, but Barragan alone had ever plotted against him. Everyone knew how that had turned out.

Harribel well knew that it didn't pay to advertise.

* * *

Grimmjow Jaegerjacques had been sitting—just short of a slouch, really—at his place around the long table for a full three minutes and twenty seconds when the third Espada glided through the doors. Damn woman had to be so much more _civilized _and _calm _than everyone else. Or at least that was how Aizen phrased it. All Grimmjow saw when he looked at her was a frigid bitch trying to kiss up to the man who thought he owned them all. No true Hollow would just go along with everything Aizen said like she did.

_Then again, it's not like he gave any of us much of a choice, _the fifth Espada conceded as he straightened a bit. _Just sent one of the Numeros to cut me down and drag me back here so he could offer me a path to the top and a chance to bring my pack back._

Only much later had the catlike Arrancar realized that Aizen hadn't just given him a new form and new powers. The tattoo emblazoned on fair skin ever since that marble had remade him bound him to this place, to slavery under some Shinigami who'd gotten uppity and been punished for it. Sure, there was some wiggle room—more than Aizen had intended, probably. But their not-so-dear leader had never shown himself to be anything less than perfect at limiting loopholes.

It had been three minutes and thirty seconds when Harribel took her spot a few seats closer to Aizen than Grimmjow's own chair. He bared overlong teeth at her in the greeting-challenge of a Hollow. The blonde woman slid a cool green gaze over to him in the standard reply of an uninterested predator before focusing her attention on Aizen. Grimmjow dragged his own eyes to the smirking man at the head of the table, currently pretending to look pleased.

_Huh. Wonder where the snake-in-the-dune went? _Happy to have an excuse to not look at Aizen just yet, Grimmjow zeroed in on the spot where Ichimaru Gin usually sat, his too-straight posture a mockery of a real soldier's.

"My dear Espada," their Shinigami overlord purred. "How nice to see all your faces today. I'm sure you're all wondering why a familiar face is missing."

_We're all wondering now, _the Sexta Espada thought sourly. _No one really cares about that asshole, just what he can do to us._

"Gin is simply monitoring Las Noches's latest guest for me. The boy may be disoriented, so I thought it best to keep him in his own chambers until I can smooth things over. You all may be...too much for him at present, gentle as I'm sure you'd be, my Espada." Aizen made a show of brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes, only for it to fall back into place.

Nnoitra scoffed, scuffing a sandaled toe on the floor. "Some new Numeros brat? Pfft, bet he's not even worth fighting." It was as close to saying he didn't care as an Arrancar could get. Nnoitra was as bound to Aizen through his Zanpakuto and tattoo as Grimmjow himself. Just as bound as Grimmjow was by his own ambitions, too.

Unlike Nnoitra, though, Grimmjow liked to poke holes in and work around Aizen's rules instead of smashing through them and getting smashed to the ground himself. It was probably their respective Adjuchas backgrounds talking. A giant praying mantis with scything mandibles and claws didn't want or need the fluidity and sleek power of a panther.

His mistake. A sharp-toothed smirk crossed the blue-haired Espada's face unbidden. You could stick it to those damn Shinigami a lot more often when you weren't licking wounds that came from your own stupidity.

"Something to contribute, Grimmjow?" Aizen said silkily. "Do you perhaps agree with Nnoitra?"

Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Yeah. Glad to have another Arrancar around here, hope I don't get stuck with 'im, all that sh-stuff," he corrected hastily, "but anybody who can't pull his own weight is Menos bait. Some special snowflake who can't handle his superiors and has to be coddled ain't my idea of a good warrior. We're gonna beat the Shinigami, we gotta have guys who won't get in the way. I'm not lookin' after some poor bastard who ain't—"

He choked on air, feeling gravity intensify by a thousandfold. His muscles clenched and turned to lead. Grimmjow fell from his chair, curling in on himself to protect the tender spots being poked by a million sword-points.

"You will not use that word in my presence again, dear Espada. This is a place where heritage matters not, merely the strength of your will and blade." Aizen's dull brown gaze had become as sharp as glass, just as dangerously fractured. "So fear not. My plans are well beyond the scope of _your _mind, and if our new guest is too weak for your tastes, keep in mind that you are too weak for mine. At least this soul will become strong." The Shinigami surged to his feet, seemingly towering over the spirit-crushed Arrancar. "And, dear Espada... if you are so distasteful of more of your kind arriving at Las Noches, why do you assume that our guest is also an Arrancar?"

The pressure around him lifted, allowing his muscles to twitch pathetically again. Aizen's gaze smoothed again, sliding over to Tosen.

"Kaname. I find that another matter commands my attention. Handle the meeting from here. Remember the points of strategy we discussed earlier," he said.

Without another word, their overlord swept out. As he passed Grimmjow, Aizen cut his eyes at the Sexta Espada. It was only for an instant, but the glare sent pangs of fear through his frame. The veneer of calm that the soon-to-be god maintained had come crashing down for an instant, exposing a twist of raw hate and loathing that didn't seem to be entirely directed at Grimmjow.

_That's what makes us follow him, _the blue-haired Arrancar thought as he clambered to his feet and took his place again. _This Shinigami power can't make us outright _scared_, but it does the next best thing: keeps us from complete chaos. We'd have to follow him even without these damn swords and tattoos just 'cause he's strong. Whatever god designed this world made it so that we've got that much to control us._

Grimmjow spent the rest of the meeting imagining the various ways he could dismember Aizen. Really, there was a lot of potential, depending on whether he wanted to go for poetic or fun. Maybe cutting out that sonuvabitch's supposedly all-seeing eyes, then his silver tongue, then shattering that showy sword of his. Aizen had introduced it as Kyoka Suigetsu- "mirror flower water moon" was a sissy name for a sword. Couldn't be too hard to shatter and shove down his throat.

Yeah, that wasn't real likely right now. But soon enough he'd have the power to do that. And maybe looking into Aizen's new pet would show him the path to that power. It was better than sitting around in stupid-ass meetings drinking tea that Aizen probably spit in before serving.

Grimmjow slunk out of the room with two goals in his narrow mind. First, he wanted to beat the shit out of something. One of the Privaron would probably be up for an off-the-record tussle, so that was easily taken care of. Second, he wanted to see just what was so special about the brat. That was less easily accomplished. But for someone who would be the king, nothing was easy.

The difficulty would make tasting victory all the sweeter.

* * *

_Sorry for taking so long with this! I won't bother you with all the reasons why, but just know that I've been working for a long time on this. And just because I like to know that someone's reading this stuff, I'll pose a challenge to you:_

_Who's Aizen's 'new guest?' _

_First person to guess right gets an OC in the story as the lieutenant of the Fourth or for a position that I'll have to reveal to them privately._


End file.
